


Letting Things Slide.

by IwillbeReichenbach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adult Content, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Comfort, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Implied Background Johnlock, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, like a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29174868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: When Sherlock returned from the dead and found John to be both planning a marriage and unwelcoming of his return he sought of the comfort of Greg Lestrade.  Unfortunately, Sherlock's plan for dealing with his trauma backfires and leaves him more damaged and confused than ever.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 20
Kudos: 58





	Letting Things Slide.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not for everyone. It is pretty heavy going and is a confusing mix of sex and angst. If the Sherlock and Lestrade pairing aren't your thing, then this probably won't be to your liking. Trigger warnings aplenty, I have tried to deal with all the issues tackfully but please make good choices, my damaged beauties. 
> 
> Thank you to my long suffering beta, Sandrina, who suffered through this for me. I have promised her proper Johnlock in the future to make up for this.

The hug lasted for longer than Greg expected it to. Sherlock had never been a hugger. Greg had respected that. He had always suspected that Sherlock saw it as too intimate an act, even back in the days when they’d been having sex on a semi-regular basis. Not that there had been anything regular about it. But this time, Sherlock hugged back; awkwardly at first, then he held on, really held on. Greg felt it right to his core; the desperation of it. Sherlock pushed forwards a step, forcing Greg to take a step back, then another. Slowly at first, then faster. Deliberately walking Greg backwards between the cars and into the deep shadows of the car park. Greg’s eyes adjusted quickly to take in the sly self-satisfied grin on Sherlock’s face as he moved Greg backwards with all the poise and control of a dancer. He kept Greg moving until his back was pressed hard against the concrete wall. 

Greg’s hand was drawn to the back of Sherlock’s neck to guide their mouths together. The kiss was hungry and familiar, but brief. Sherlock sunk to his knees so quickly that Greg was worried that he had fallen. He nearly reached down to help him up until he saw the hard intent look in Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock hadn’t exactly planned this, but despite the raw sting from the split in his lower lip he was eager. Perhaps more eager because of it. John’s rejection stung harder than any of the wounds. He reached for Greg’s belt buckle. The cold metal a sharp contrast to the warm buttery soft leather that he parted. 

“This is a very bad idea.” Greg gasped out, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to pause him. “This is how I lose my job, isn’t it?”

“Despite what people might think, I cannot, in fact, predict the future. I have been abundantly reminded of that already this evening.” Sherlock said with a tinge of impatience. 

“That’s not reassuring me any. I’m so getting fired for this.” Greg said, letting his chin fall forwards against his chest. Sherlocks coat fell in a perfect circle around where he knelt, and Greg wondered if it was the dark pit he was about to fall into. 

“That is very much against the balance of probability.” Sherlock said, his hot breath the centre of Greg’s attention.

“What if they come for their cars?” 

“They won’t.” Sherlock said as he lowered the zip of Greg’s fly one tooth at a time. 

“How do you know? We don’t even know whose cars they are?” Greg said in a breathy voice.

“Morrice and Cinders,” Sherlock said, pointing to each of the cars that flanked them, “both on night shift, neither have any reason to leave for another six and a half hours. I’m no expert but I believe that you won’t last that long, going by the rate of your breathing.”

Greg let his head fall back against the wall. “God, no, I’ll be lucky to last thirty seconds inside that clever mouth.”

“Shall I take that as a yes?”

“Please.” Greg gasped.

Sherlock finally popped the button free and lowered Greg’s pants enough to liberate his erection. 

Greg moved his hand up Sherlock’s neck until the soft dark curls were weaved between his fingers. His other hand he brought to his own mouth to stifle the moans that threatened to alert all of New Scotland Yard to Sherlock’s resurrection. Sherlock went to work with enthusiasm typical of his nature. He was slurping, sucking and swallowing with near frantic passion. Greg forgot how to breathe. His head was spinning; the return from the dead, the spectacular blow job, the first sexual interest Sherlock had shown since John had turned up at Baker Street.

Oh, John.

“Sherlock, Sherlock. What about John?” 

Sherlock sunk forward to take Greg even deeper into his hot wet mouth, then pulled back suddenly. “It’s not a problem. He hates me.”

Sherlock licked a strip straight up the length of Greg’s erection. Greg’s cock twitched in the contrast of hot and cold. Air and emotions. 

“This isn’t a revenge fuck, is it?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “No, nothing of the sort. This has absolutely nothing to do with John Watson.”

“That’s reassuring.” Greg somehow doubted this was entirely about him. Even if it wasn’t about John, there was something slightly off kilter about Sherlock’s reborn passion. Now was not the time that he wanted to analyse that, however. Gently he drew Sherlock back towards him. Neither his cock, nor Sherlock had lost any enthusiasm. 

It was only moments before Greg’s legs were shaking with the effort of both holding off an explosive orgasm and staying standing. Sherlock bobbed along this length at a fervour pace, one hand wrapped around his thigh for balance and the other massaging the root of his cock with firm pulses. One finger trailing down to press at the point where his balls were drawing up. 

God, he could die happy like this. It took all his had not to thrust forward, his hips stuttering without his permission as Sherlock pointed his tongue and drew imaginary patterns along his length. He tapped Sherlock on the shoulder twice; knowing he couldn’t hold off much longer. Sherlock drove forward with his blissful mouth, driving Greg half mad. Then it washed over him. 

Warmth flooded his body, as something grew in his chest. His skin prickled as the wave rolled through him. Sherlock worked him through it with hand and mouth. Greg’s throat locked up and all he could do was gasp out little noises around the knuckles he held between his teeth. 

When it was done, Greg slumped back against the wall. Eyes scrunched shut, rainbows behind his eyelids. 

Sherlock fought not to gag around the slimy glob in his mouth. He told himself he could bare it as he put Greg back into his pants, tucked his shirt in and fastened his trousers. He even did his belt back up before he stood. Greg’s hand falling away as he forced his stiff joints to unfold. 

Sherlock took a few steps into the darkness and Greg felt bereft without any contact. He heard Sherlock spit. Then spit again. 

He came back and Greg was pulling him close. Pulling him in so that he could kiss him again. He could taste himself, blood and a bitterness that he couldn’t identify. And cigarettes; the bloody hypocrite. 

“I hope forensics don’t look at that.” Greg said against Sherlocks mouth.

“Is Anderson’s replacement any less stupid?”

“Not a bit.” 

“I don’t think we need to worry then.” Sherlock said as he slumped into Greg’s embrace. He could feel the rumble of Greg’s laugh against his chest.

“Want me to return the favour?” Greg asked. It only seemed fair. 

“Not now, maybe another time.” Sherlock said flatly. There was no way he could deal with the rollercoaster of emotion that a reciprocated experience would entail, not out here, not in the cold darkness. Not on the unforgiving concrete. Even this had left him feeling somewhat rattled. The arousal he had felt had been chased away by the dull gloom and the overwhelming sensation of ejaculate in his mouth. He pulled way, emotions controlling his movements. 

Greg was rather glad for the raincheck. He felt completely rung out and a little shaky, but he suddenly realised how tired Sherlock looked. He ran his finger along Sherlock’s bottom lip, blood collecting on his fingertip. What had happened tonight? “You’re bleeding. Come home with me? Let me look after you.”

Sherlock nodded once and Greg was surprised how easily he agreed. Greg pushed him towards his car. Fumbling for the keys in his twisted pocket. 

“Do you want to grab a bite on the way?” 

“Not hungry.” 

“Some things never change.” Greg muttered as he sunk heavily into the driver’s seat. Sherlock got into the passenger seat, lowering himself in slowly, almost gingerly. Silence sat awkwardly between them as Greg manoeuvred the car out into the street. Strange how that could happen. One moment so intimate, the next they were worlds apart. Greg had so many questions he wanted to ask but didn’t know how to get started. It seemed that Sherlock had clammed up the moment they had broken apart. 

“You got back recently. Today, was it?” Greg tried.

“Well done, Lestrade. How could you tell?” 

“Your hair has been cut recently. I could feel it. I suspect that you wouldn’t have gone to an unfamiliar hairdresser if you could have gone to your own here in London. Plus, it would be a high priority for you, you vain git. You wouldn’t have let anyone see you unless you looked just right.”

“I am impressed. Have you been keeping you arrest rate up with that kind of wit?” 

“Shut up.” He’d been proud of his deduction, but in typical fashion, Sherlock had made it feel mundane and slightly embarrassing. 

“Fine.” 

There was a pause in the conversation as neither of them knew how to continue. Greg edged through a set of traffic lights as the night-time rush boxed them in. 

“So, are you sticking around?” Greg asked, wondering if Sherlock would interpret it as needy, clingy, and demanding. Greg needed to know. Need know so he could harden his heart. 

“Yep, job's done and there is this terrorist thing that needs sorting.”

“Good.” Greg said, relieved that he was back for good, not sure he could handle losing him again so soon after his return. “Wait, what terrorist thing? 

“Not sure, I’ll figure it out.” Sherlock said cryptically. 

“Of that, I have no doubt. Mycroft?” 

“Has his signature all over it, doesn’t it?” 

Greg nodded. “Who else knows you’re back?”

“John, obviously, Molly, and Mycroft, of course. I haven’t seen Missus Hudson yet, there is no way she would have let me back out of Baker Street once I walked through the door.”

“Too right, she wouldn’t have.” Greg agreed and then after a pause remember that Sherlock had said something about John hating him. “And John’s mad?”

“John’s really mad.”

“How mad?”

“Mad with the rage of a thousand suns.” Sherlock said. He was unsure that even that described how angry John had been. 

“Yeah, doesn’t entirely surprise me. He was pretty shook up when you… left?” He’d nearly said ‘died.’ Would that be inappropriate? 

“I interrupted his proposal. I think that might have had something to do with it.”

“Oh, you’ve met Mary then.” Greg said bitterly as he slowed for another red light. “What do you make of her?”

“She’s perfect for John. I like her.”

“Really?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know; I just don’t trust her for some reason. There is something off about her. Don’t you think?” 

“I didn’t notice.” Sherlock said, turning towards the window and wrapping his coat around himself tighter. He didn’t want to talk about any of it. Not being back, not what it meant, not the terrorist plot, not Mycroft, not Mary, and certainly not John. 

Greg let it slide. If Sherlock couldn’t see that there was something off about Mary, then maybe he was the one that was wrong. Perhaps he was just a bit protective over John. Sherlock’s death had not been easy for John to cope with. It had taken him a long time to find an even keel. Greg worried that Mary had seen how vulnerable he was and was taking advantage of that. 

It concerned Greg how much John had changed. When he had first known him, while Sherlock was still ‘alive’ he had been easy going, for the most part. Sure, he had been intense in his following of Sherlock’s crazy existence, but he had shaken off the little things. He’d been quick to laugh; easily amused. Since Sherlock had gone over the edge, John took everything so seriously. He seemed hard and grim all the time. Greg suspected he was drinking a bit too much too, not that it was any of his business.

“Why’d you do it, Sherlock?”

“Oh, dull. Moriarty. Snipers. Death threats. Hardly original.” Sherlock said to the window. He’d wanted to talk about it earlier, but after John’s reaction he had lost all enthusiasm for it. 

“He was going to kill you if you didn’t kill yourself?” Greg said, thinking that he finally understood. 

“No. No, that’s far too mundane for Moriarty. He knew I’d have just waited to get shot. No, he was going to kill John, and Mrs Hudson, and you, of course. Well not him personally, he had hired muscle for that kind of thing, he never got his own hands dirty. Except right at the end there. But I couldn’t let that happen. Of course, once I had convinced them that I was dead, I had to remove, disband, or dismantle the whole of Moriarty’s web.” Sherlock explained, then after a pause added in a dull voice, “ it took rather longer than I had anticipated.” 

Greg considered what he had just been told, it made more sense than anything had in a long time. He had not stopped to consider that Sherlock was saving anything other than his reputation. Sherlock was almost always a better person than he gave him credit for. He had effectively saved all their lives by sacrificing himself, well years of his life anyway. Questions reeled through Greg’s mind. How did he do it? Does John know this? Did you have help? Was Mycroft involved? Molly, did she know? Surely, she did, there was something just slightly off about her reactions. He would have needed her help. 

A small snuffle caught Greg’s attention. He looked away from the oncoming headlights to glance at Sherlock. His face was pressed against the glass of the passenger side window; turned away from Greg, but a glance was enough to know that he was asleep. 

Greg smiled. It was a rare thing to see a sleeping Sherlock in the wild. Something he never thought he would see again. He had to reach out and touch him. To prove he was real. Greg stole a glanced over before he reached out to run his hand along the crease of Sherlocks right thigh. The fabric of his trousers was silky soft in the moments before Sherlock flinched beneath his palm. Greg’s hand retreated. It was as if one of them had been burned. Greg wasn’t sure which one of them it was. 

“Piss off; sleeping.” Came the mumble echoing against the glass. He kept his eyes on the road after that. He watched the traffic crawl along as his anticipation rose. Sherlock for all his surly nature was letting Greg take him home. Back in the day, this would have meant they’d fuck until they fell asleep and then, hours later, Greg would wake up alone wondering if it was all an erotic dream. As his anticipation rose, his nerves rose too. Would it be like old times? Would Sherlock be the same as he used to be? He didn’t seem the same. There was something dark there, under the surface. Something he was keeping hidden. The way he hid everything. Greg didn’t know what to expect once they were in his home. He could be anything from hostile to amorous. From snarky to sarcastic. From sensual to arrogant. He tried to convince himself that that was half the fun. Surely, any version of Sherlock was better than another night alone. Better than another night of grief, and loneliness, and sad wanking. 

The traffic thinned as they got into the residential streets. Greg resisted the urge to turn the radio on. If Sherlock was sleeping, he must be exhausted, but Greg was too. A long day at the office followed by a shockingly satisfying orgasm had left him feeling very mellow. Maybe the radio was a good idea. Falling asleep at the wheel and killing them both might have a strange irony, but it wasn’t an appealing idea. Flicking on the radio didn’t seem to disturb Sherlock. Greg let the muttering talk show wash over him, but he couldn’t focus on the chatter. He wasn’t a young man anymore, but even this soon, the anticipation of having Sherlock back in his bed was doing more to keep him awake than any talk show could manage. He wiggled in his car seat, trying to get more comfortable.

Greg’s driveway was little more than a narrow lane down the side of his place. There was barely enough room for a person to open the car door. He usually parked to the hard left to give himself room, but he aimed for the centre, knowing that Sherlock would need some space to get out. He expected Sherlock to wake the moment he turned the engine off, just as most napping passengers seemed to do, but the steady rise and fall of his chest continued unfaltering. Greg slid out of the narrow gap between the car door and the red bricks of his house. Shuffling sideways around the car he made his way to the passenger door. Sherlock’s cheek was pressed against the glass. Greg smiled at the comedy face that was presented to him. A moment of cheekiness made him do it. He tugged the door open with a hard jerk. The strangled gasp that it wrenched from Sherlock was worth it. 

Greg was right there to grip his shoulder so he couldn’t truly fall, not that the door opened that far anyway, but Sherlock failed to see the funny side of the gag. 

“Rude.” Sherlock snarled, heart pounding as he pushed Greg away. He unfurled himself from the car and squeezed along the narrow space heading for the front door. 

Annoyed at himself for risking that gag, Greg followed him towards the door. Sherlock produced a set of keys from his pocket. Greg’s own set of house keys. “Oi, they’re mine.”

“Yep, I pickpocket you when you’re annoying.” Sherlock said, stepping up to Greg’s front door.

“When was I annoying?” Greg asked, put out by the accusation. Bit rich, Sherlock calling him annoying. 

“While you were deciding if you wanted sexual favours in the car park. Gosh, you took a long time to make up your mind.”

“I need my Job. Hell, you need me to have my job. If you want to…?”

Sherlock paused to glance back over his shoulder at Greg. Giving him a withering look that Greg took as ‘of course I do, you idiot.’

Sherlock fumbled for the right key. Greg took opportunity in his distraction and stepped up close behind him. He pressed against Sherlock’s back, buried his nose in Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock pressed back against him as he found the key he was looking for. Greg reached around to run both palms up Sherlock’s thighs to his crotch. Stroking him through his pants. “I can hardly believe you’re really here.” 

“Where else would I be?” Sherlock asked, as arousal rippled through him.

“Newport and St Woolos Cemetery.” Greg was unable to keep the touch of bitterness out of his voice.

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered reverently, then as the lock clicked with the turn of the key, a triumphant, “ah ha.” 

He barged through the door, tossing the keys into the vase on the table that stood beside it and strode away, leaving Greg outside. Greg shook his head. Clearly nothing was going to be simple or predictable tonight. He shut the door and flicked on the hall light before plonking himself in the chair, just inside the door, to take his shoes off. He leaned back for a moment. The exhaustion and exasperation of the day catching up with him. He suddenly felt strangely melancholic. He should be elated by Sherlock’s abrupt return and he was, in a way, but it was also a reminder of the sludge of grief he had fought so hard to throw off. He closed his eyes. 

Sherlock looked back from the end of the hall, aware that he wasn’t being followed to the bedroom. Greg was sitting in the chair with his head tipped back against the wall. He looked as if he might fall asleep where he sat. Sherlock went back to him; sunk to his knees. He pulled at the laces of his scuffed dress shoes. He eased off the right one and then the left and set both shoes aside before rolling the socks off Greg’s feet. Hearing a muttered ‘thank you,’ he looked up to see Greg looking down at him. The soft expression made Sherlock twitch a half smile. He pushed up to meet Greg’s lips, hungrily driving him back into the chair. Shifting forwards between Greg’s legs as he stood and turning Greg’s face up with a hand cupped behind his head. 

Greg broke the kiss. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It might take a while to adjust.”

Sherlock moved back a step. Greg expected him to walk away, but he placed his left foot onto the edge of the chair between Greg’s thighs, frightfully close to his crotch. Greg sucked in a breath at the thought of what could have been crushed. A tilt of Sherlock’s head was enough to tell Greg that he was demanding his shoe be taken off. Thankfully, Greg spoke fluent Sherlock and plucked at the laces, removed the shoe, and the sock. Wondering where this sock fell in the sock index. Surely it wasn’t intended to be discarded on the floor of Greg’s entryway, but that is where it was destined to stay for the immediate future. The right foot followed, with Sherlock placing his hands onto Greg’s shoulders for support. Sherlock's foot remained there long after it was bare. 

Greg looked up inquisitively, but the moment his eyes left Sherlock’s foot, he felt it brush up against his crotch. Sherlock smiled devilishly down at him. “It is another other time.” 

“What?” Greg said momentarily confused, all his blood seemed to have descended to his cock, leaving his brain absent of intelligent thought.

“You asked about returning the favour, back in the car park. I said…”

“Another time.” Greg finished, catching up, smiling up.

“So?” Sherlock leaned over towards him, pressing his lips against his jaw. 

Greg tilted his head to kiss him back. His cock throbbed with interest. 

Sherlock leaned in and whispered in Greg’s ear. “I cleaned myself out for you.” 

The statement shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was, but if the chair hadn’t been supporting him, he was sure he would have ended in a puddle on the ground. Sherlock never talked like that; he was never that forward, never that… 

“I want you to fuck me.” Sherlock said, cutting off his thoughts.

The invitation made his heart skip. They had done it before, years ago. Occasionally. God damn, it had felt good. He wanted that again, he’d thought about it on a hundred different lonely nights but... 

Sherlock stroked him with his toes once more.

“Bedroom,” they both said at the same time.

Sherlock was unbuttoning Greg’s shirt as his toes continued to stroke him through his pants. Panting, finding it hard to even think, Greg only managed the top two buttons of Sherlock’s shirt before he was pulled to his feet by his collar.

“Bedroom.” Greg said again, and for a split second he thought he saw doubt written on Sherlock’s face. It made his guts twist. It made a whisper of doubt creep into his own mind, a whisper he didn’t quite understand. 

Sherlock stepped back, pulling him towards his bedroom. Sherlock stepped backwards confidently letting Greg steer him with the fingertips he has slipped under the waistband of his trousers. Greg was sure he still remembered the way, but he eased him around the corner to the bedroom. Neither of them bothered with the lights.

Greg stopped Sherlock just before his thighs brushed against the bed. Kissed him again. The soft slide of lips too good to resist. Greg absently considered the sheets. If he’d thought that there was any chance he’d have a guest over, he’d have changed them. Still, might save a bit of washing. With any luck they’d hardly be decent by morning. 

Sherlock sat down slowly drawing Greg’s mouth with him. Greg followed him as he lay back against the mattress. Crawling up until he was braced over him, palming him through his trousers as their tongues pressed together. He could feel Sherlock sigh against his mouth as he pressed his hips upwards. Greg fumbled to get Sherlock’s trousers undone; kissing down his neck as Sherlock rasped for breath. He was glad that Sherlock never wore a belt, it made getting him out of his pants quicker. But the button refused to come loose by one hand alone. The fabric felt new and the buttonhole tight as a virgin, forcing Greg to use both hands to free it, but while he was there, he took the opportunity to take care of the zip. He lowered his trousers and pants together as Sherlock raised his hips.

Sherlock was lost in the unbelievable feeling of Greg’s breath ghosting over his erection. Tipping his head back he tried not to notice the pain in his back. He tried to ignore other details too. Like the bra hanging from the bed post; small size. Unexplainably it managed to be both plain and patterned. Not the ex-wife’s. Left behind when she left in a hurry. That must have been an awkward morning. He tried to ignore the strands of dog hair, the week-old sheets, and the concerns that rattled around in his mind. The wet slide of Greg’s flat tongue helped him focus. As did the confident fingers that rolled the loose skin around his balls. The tight circle of lips sliding sinfully slow down his shaft made him forget everything. He was consumed by pleasure and want. Until Greg’s fingers shifted to the bottom button of his shirt. Then want was replaced by a tinge of fear. He couldn’t let Greg get his shirt off. Damn, he probably couldn’t even take his jacket off. He was sure some of the stitches ripped when John had thrown him down in the restaurant. Why did Mycroft have to choose a white shirt. This would all be over if Greg saw what was beneath it. 

“Stop. I don’t want to come like this. I want you to fuck me.” Sherlock blurted. He knew it would stop Greg from bothering with his shirt, but he’d meant to be more tactful.

Greg didn’t think he could get any harder but that did it. Sherlock pushed him over onto his back. Greg expected him to dive in for another passionate kiss, but he clambered across Greg to get to the bedside table. Greg left him to it. Unbuckling his own trousers and shimming them off while Sherlock was distracted with riffling through the drawer. 

Sherlock was carelessly spilling clean socks and pants and coins into the floor as he hunted for the lube and condoms that he knew he would find there. New socks, old socks, a roll of notes, a necklace that had belonged to Greg’s wife, a pair of tangled headphones and then right at the back he found what he was looking for.

“Bingo.” He proclaimed, fisting his prize in victory.

When Sherlock turned back Greg was sitting back against the headboard, naked, stroking himself. He had a hungry look on his face. His spare hand reached out for the lube. Sherlock flicked the condoms onto Greg’s chest. Greg had pulled the blankets back and Sherlock noticed, as he stood and finally stepped out of his trousers. He dumped his coat onto the ground, but he resolutely left his shirt and jacket on. He hoped Greg would read it as haste and not the evasion that it was.

“Come here.” Greg gestured towards his lap, while he was squeezing some lube onto his fingers. 

Sherlock went to him, sat between his legs in the way that was so familiar, but so nearly forgotten. Greg snaked his arms under Sherlock’s and pulled his knees up and over his own, so that he was splayed opened. 

Despite the pull on the wounds on his back, Sherlock leaned into the embrace. His breathing began to match Greg’s. The steady rhythm helping him to relax; helping him to forget. He was losing himself in the feeling of Greg’s hands brushing up his thighs, the warmth of the breath behind his ear. 

Greg stroked his knuckles up the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, careful to not smear lube everywhere. He snaked his other hand under the white shirt and across Sherlock’s belly. Feeling across the little rolls of tight skin their position created. He waited until he felt Sherlock relax against him before he moved forwards. Seducing Sherlock was like working with a flighty colt. One wrong move and it would all be over, probably ending with him kicked in the ribs too. 

Once he felt Sherlock settle against him, Greg’s hands worked in tandem, one working over his cock and occasionally rolling his testicles, while the other hand concentrated on opening him up slowly. Using one finger at a time and pumping lube into him straight from the bottle between each one. 

“You make the nicest noises.” Greg sighed into his ear. 

Sherlock hadn’t even realised that he was moaning and humming until Greg mentioned it. He went self-consciously silent. Even with Greg’s twisting fingers knuckle deep in his arse and the fact that Greg had actually said he enjoyed the noises, it made him too uncomfortable to allow them now that he was aware. 

Sherlock reached a hand behind him, where he could feel Greg’s erection hot against his spine. It was awkward but he could fist Greg’s cock in time with his own movements. It was hard to concentrate with Greg working him from both sides; leaving him unsure whether to thrust up or down. He was getting close. Sherlock reached out for the condoms where they had fallen discarded on the mattress. Ripping one open he said, “you’re going to want to use one of these.”

“Pushy.” Greg huffed a laugh. He’d been quite enjoying having Sherlock writhe in his lap. Still, he’d already busted a nut earlier, so he guessed Sherlock was feeling a bit more urgency than he was. 

“Of course, I’m pushy. You need to wear one or this is all off.” Sherlock said abruptly. 

“That’s not what I was getting…” 

“I have been known to use drugs intravenously.” Sherlock said bluntly, as justification. “Actually, use two.”

“So, you are using again?”

“So, what if I am?” Sherlock snapped. Getting up onto his knees and twisting around to stare down at Greg.

“It’s none of my business, I guess.” Greg said, he didn’t want to fight about it. “I was planning on wearing one all along.”

“Good, but I’m serious, wear two.” Sherlock said ripping another one open. “You don’t know where I have been. You’re not the last person who fucked me.” 

“Charming. That’s a real mood kill, you know?”

“Why? Was I the last person you were with?” Sherlock knew he wasn’t. He knew a woman had been here recently. A new woman. Greg had liked her. Liked her enough to not return the bra; enough to display it where he could see it.

“You just sucked me off in the car park.”

“Don’t play that game. Before that?”

“Sure. I have been with someone else, and I’m sure you know all about it.” 

“Of course I do. Bra on the bedpost, perfume lingering in your car. She dumped you, didn’t she? Otherwise, she’d have been back for the bra. See, what’s the difference?”

“The difference,” Greg snapped, pissed at Sherlock for his stupidity, for his cutting deductions, “I thought you were never coming back.”

“Neither did I.” 

Greg shut his eyes. The enormity of that statement hitting him full force in the chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t think. This is all so messed up.”

“Just fuck me already.” Sherlock demanded, crawling forwards and stroking Greg back to full hardness before sliding a condom on. He followed it closely with the second one, before Greg could object. 

Greg groaned at the feeling of Sherlock’s delicate fingers working over him. Sherlock would be the death of him, he was sure of it. He moved to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, intending the push it and the dark jacket that remained off together, but Sherlock shifted away from him, turned his back, kneeling, and grabbing the baseboard of the bed. Greg forgot about the shirt, the argument, the double wrapping on his dick. Pulling Sherlock’s arse cheeks apart and sinking his thumbs into its warm slick depths, he felt fully aroused again. The residue of anger and grief only adding fire to his passion. He licked a wide stripe up Sherlock’s crack starting at his sack and finishing at the dimples of his bum, before dipping down to lick into his hole. 

“If you keep that up, you won’t get any further.” Sherlock choked out.

Greg chucked, swirling his tongue once more before shuffling forwards between Sherlock’s knees to line up his cock. 

Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut at the feeling, both familiar and foreign. Emotions mixed; want, arousal, fear, desire, dread. He gripped the footboard harder, trying to ground himself in the room. He was here in Lestrade’s house. Not in that shitty cell in Serbia. He was warm and free and consenting to what was happening behind him. He wanted it. Needed it to replace all the shit memories with something decent. He needed it to take back control of his body, and his mind. 

“You’re going to have to relax a bit.” Greg said, running his free hand along Sherlock’s waist. 

“Just do it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s my body.” Sherlock said. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. He tried to let the tension drift away, tried to breathe through it. Tried to un-clench his jaw. Tried not to think of the things that had happened back there, but it was like trying not to think about an elephant. 

Lestrade pressed forward slowly, always careful and more tender than Sherlock felt he deserved. He tried to think only of Lestrade. That it was his hands on his hips, his cock slipping inside, his muttering and sighing . He tried to focus on the pleasure he was feeling beneath all the weirdness. The pleasure he didn’t have to supress or ignore. The pleasure he didn’t have to be ashamed of. Yet the shame was there all the same. 

“Oh my God. You’re so tight.” Greg said through gritted teeth. “You feel amazing. Jesus.” 

Sherlock was glad of Lestrade’s words, unoriginal as they were, they helped to keep him there in the moment. Greg paused, groped for the bottle of lube, pouring too much on the spot that they were connected. Sherlock gasped as the cold liquid ran down his balls. 

The liquid slicked the way for Greg to twitch his hips. Barely able to contain himself from thrusting, he slid slowly deeper, then retreated. Then sunk in a little deeper. Sherlock made a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a whimper. He’d always been quiet during sex. Never one to give much away, so Greg loved it when he could produce any sound of pleasure from him. 

Greg continued with the tightly restrained back and forth until he was balls deep. Panting with effort and arousal, he went still. Waiting for some indication that Sherlock was ready to continue. They stayed like that for a moment, a moment that lasted an eternity. 

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and rocked back a little, testing the slide. Testing himself to see if he was able to relax a little. 

Sherlock’s movement was all the indication that Greg needed to rock his hips froward and back, he was having trouble containing himself. The steady slide of warmth gripping his cock was bliss and he was suddenly glad for the layers of protection that dulled the feeling, he’d have surely shot his wad already if it wasn’t for that. 

A sharp twitch of Greg’s hips tested Sherlock’s resolve and arousal but the gentle strokes that followed reminded Sherlock that Greg was someone he trusted not to harm him. It allowed Sherlock to catalogue the ways that this felt different from the abuse he’d suffered through in Serbia. The different size of Greg’s cock, the slide of lubrication that was offered now, but wasn’t then, the way Greg stroked his hip and flank rather than gripping with fierce cruel pressure. The soft mattress under his knees, the lack of shackles. The fact that Greg cared about his pleasure, rather than using it as a weapon. 

Greg was glad he’d already had one orgasm, there was no way he’d have been able to get Sherlock there otherwise. He seemed to be holding back, unable to lose himself to the moment. He’d seemed to be so amorous earlier, needy and wanting but once they had made it to the bed, something had shifted slightly, something Greg couldn’t quite pinpoint. Greg ran his hand around to the front of Sherlock’s hip. Stroking and groping blindly until his fisted Sherlock’s cock in this hand. His hand still slippery with residual lube. He had lost some of the hardness he’d had earlier, but he responded as Greg stroked him. Sherlocks breath caught; his body twitched. Greg sped up his movements. Keeping the rhythm of this hips and hand just slightly unpredictable, in the way he knew Sherlock used to enjoy. 

A bright flash of pleasure made Sherlock sink down lower, pressing his face into the bed. It changed the angel of their connection, but also sent a streak of pain through his chest as broken ribs ground against one another. Greg made another change of pace. That’s what did it for Sherlock. That’s what enabled him to lose himself in the moment. Chasing the need for completion, but unable to predict the slide of Greg’s hand and hips. It made pleasure spike when he least expected it. Made him wait for it, anticipate it, chase it. 

Sherlock ejaculated with a sob, his face buried in the bunched-up duvet . Completion gave him release and some pleasure, but it was hardly the ecstasy he had been chasing. He was glad he had opted to turn his back to Greg, it was worth the risk of him seeing the damage that marked his flesh there, even that would be preferable to him witnessing him fall apart. He knew Greg would make assumptions about the little noises that escaped him, allowing him to hide the nature of his uncontrolled emotions. Boneless now that he’d finished, he slumped completely forwards, muscles lax, letting Greg chase his own ending. Silent tears came unbidden in the waves of emotional exhaustions that rolled over him. 

Greg thrust harder and faster, his hands, one covered in slick ejaculate, gripping the tails of Sherlock’s jacket as he lost all rhythm. Greg came, while buried deep, with a choked off gasp and a string of swear words. Head flung back as he gasped for air. He didn’t realise he’d rucked up Sherlock’s clothing until he’d already pulled himself free. Sherlock was already straightening up, pulling his shirt down, as Greg caught a glimpse of a wound on Sherlock’s lower back. 

“What happened?” Greg asked, panting as he traced his finger gently along the deep gouge. His voice was rough with exertion, but his words were light and curious, as if he expected there to be an amusing story to go with the damage. 

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock’s voice sounded flat as he lied. “I must have scraped it when John pushed me down.”

Breathless as a sprinter as he sat back against the headboard, Greg was more focused on removing the uncomfortable condoms than enquiring further.

Sherlock stayed frozen in place, staring at the wall beyond the foot of the bed, trying to organise his thoughts, trying to hide his face. His body hurt, his mind was numb and yet buzzing. The waves of exhaustion that rolled over him were only kept at bay by waves of shame. 

Sherlock felt the bed dip beside him. Greg patted him on the hip and thrust a fist full of tissues into his hand.

He knows I’m crying, was Sherlock’s first horrified thought. Then he realised that the tissues were meant for another type of clean up. Robotically he took care of himself. Glad for the half-light as he suspected there would be at least a smear of blood. He thrust the tissues into his jacket pocket to hide them. He would be putting this one in the fireplace anyway. It was an afterthought to slip the jacket off, Greg wouldn’t notice the blood stains now, he was too blissed out.

Sherlock crawled up the bed, dragging the duvet with him. He made sure he was between Greg and the door. The thought of anyone blocking his escape was too much, plus it meant that the light was behind him and by burring his face in the pillows, he was sure he could hide the tear stains. He burrowed deep under the covers, hiding from the chills and the shivers that threatened to come. 

“Cigarette?” Greg asked, reaching over Sherlock to grab the packet off the nightstand. 

Sherlock shook his head. He'd had one earlier, after John and Mary had driven away. He hadn’t smoked for months, not since long before Serbia. It hadn’t agreed with him. His lungs would surely hate him just as much if he tried now. A coughing fit was not what he wanted for his next move.

Greg settled back and Sherlock turned just enough to watch the burning red tip of the cigarette until his breathing regulated and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. 

Greg pondered if smoking in bed after sex was the most cliché thing he had ever done as he sucked a slow draw, savouring it. He decided that he was a total fucking cliché; having a roll in the sack and craving a smoke afterwards. He was disgusted with himself. It would be his last cigarette. He would quit again now. A fitting end to a relapse that he apparently hadn’t needed to have. Sherlock was back, apparently the weird sex was back. Greg took another draw on the cigarette. He glanced at Sherlock beside him, burrowed into the blankets. He was all shadows. That’s how he always was, Greg reflected, always holding back, always keeping everyone in the dark, always keeping everyone at arm’s length. Tonight especially. Or was it just that Greg was having trouble adjusting. No, there was something strange, even by Sherlock standards, about the whole encounter.

Greg leaned over Sherlock to snub out the half-smoked butt in the ashtray on the nightstand. He’d lost the taste for it. Sherlock mumbled something inaudible and rolled away from him. Greg was sure he was already asleep or close to it. The alure of human warmth was too much to resist. Greg tucked himself in as closely behind Sherlock as he could. One arm twisted awkwardly under the pillow they shared so that he could hold Sherlock against his chest with the other. A move he never bothered to try unless Sherlock was already asleep or close to it, lest he be shoved away. Sherlock had never once curled himself around Greg in this way. Nor did he ever seek out this embrace. This was the little that Greg got, and he would gladly take it. He let his breathing match Sherlock’s as he spooned around him. It felt so damn good to hold him. Yet, Greg’s head was spinning with the strangeness of the evening. The post orgasm clarity told him that this was all very weird. Sherlock being back was just too new and too odd. 

Despite Anderson’s insistence, Greg hadn’t believed that he was still alive, and now here he was. Not just back, but back in his bed. What had happened between him and John that had caused this? There had to be something. Was this just a revenge fuck? Was this something that might happen again? Greg couldn’t allow himself to consider that too deeply. He’d been destroyed by that pondering too many times in the past. 

In the weeks and months after Sherlock had died, Greg had struggled with the guilt of his part in it. He had been convinced that arresting Sherlock that night at Baker Street had pushed him towards his suicide. One of his few friends had turned on him, arrested him, doubted him. They had been so close once and then Greg had treated him like that when he needed the support the most. He had sided with Donovan and Anderson. They were as much his sworn enemies as Moriarty was, what’s worse, siding with them had just fed right into Moriarty’s plan. The belief that this pushed Sherlock to the metaphorical and literal edge had haunted Greg. He hadn’t thought he would ever come to terms with it. It had taken time, and distractions to get past the worst of it. 

He glanced across Sherlock’s shoulder at the clock radio, it was only early, the red neon numbers beamed 8:17. He hadn’t eaten since the biscuits he’d had with mid-morning coffee and he hadn’t even brushed his teeth, but he didn’t want to get up. Not even to turn off the hall light. He probably wouldn’t sleep anyway, there was too much to think about. It was just nice to lie there and not be alone.

Sherlock woke suddenly, disorientated, confused. The memory of a place, a person, an act all jumped to the forefront. It was so repulsive. Bile rolled in his stomach and yet he was hard and wanting and disgusted with himself. The consuming pain throughout his body and the bright light in his face indicated Serbia. But the warmth did not. Neither did the soft bed, or the soft snoring. Confusion preceded clarity. Beside him something shifted; someone. Lestrade, his brain supplied. God, he hated waking up like this. Bed. Bed equals safe. Bed equals safe, he reminded himself. 

What had he done? Why had he thought this was a good idea? He felt worse than ever. Nothing had left him, none of the fear or hate or shame. Nothing new had come in its place. He didn’t feel more in control; he didn’t feel cleansed. The residual fog of climax felt just the same as when it had been taken from him by force. He felt dirty. He felt dirty in a way that a shower, a dozen showers could not fix, but also in other ways that a shower might. He could feel the sicky residue of lube and semen and sweat. 

Greg had rolled onto his back, close enough that Sherlock could feel the radiating body heat, but he was no longer wrapped around Sherlock. Sherlock rose slowly, inch by inch to avoid waking him, but also because his broken body couldn’t take him any more quickly.

When he stood, he froze clinging to the door fame at the feeling of lube leaking out of him. An unwelcome reminder of worse things leaking out of his arse. He shuffled towards the bathroom, naked, shivering, and irrationally worried about dripping onto the floor. 

Sherlock sat on the toilet and sobbed silently into his hands as he pushed out stinging globs of mucous and air. He had wanted them to have sex. Really wanted to and it had felt good. Not just the arousal, not just the climax but the caring gentle way Greg had handled him. The soft touches and kind words and the reciprocated desires. He had thought about it so many times and he had actively sought it out. But now that it was done, he felt just as empty as he had before. Nothing was solved or fixed or even relieved. Like the hundred showers he had taken, it had not washed away anything.

He considered leaving, getting another hit; it had been hours, but the thought of a night on the streets alarmed him more than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t go back to the bed though. Greg’s scrutiny was too much to handle while his emotions swirled uncontrolled.

Greg snored himself awake, he was flat on his back in the middle of the bed, mouth open and dry with the taste of stale cigarette smoke. His back twinged. He groaned when he realised the bed beside him was empty and cold. Another fuck and run brought to you by the disappearing act of Sherlock Holmes, he thought bitterly. The clock read 9:02. Damn it, he hadn’t even stayed an hour, the prick. 

Greg rubbed his face. He needed a piss. He needed a glass of water. Half asleep, he was opening the bathroom door before he realised it was closed. The fog of steam hit him in the face as he registered the running water. Sherlock was still here, his stupid brain supplied. Suddenly, he was self-conscious about being naked in his own bathroom.

“Just using the loo.” He announced to the wall behind the toilet. They’d just been shagging but sharing a bathroom felt strangely intimate and domestic.

A hum of acknowledgement was the only reply he go from the shower. Greg shook his head as he washed his hands; he would never understand Sherlock. He cupped water and slurped it out of his hand. He decided that he wanted more than water. He needed something stronger. He called out over the thrum of water, “Sherlock, do you want a beer?” 

There was another hum from the shower. Greg took it as a yes. He wanted a beer. Needed something to get him through this odd evening. 

Greg went via the bedroom to put on a pair of boxer shorts before going to the fridge. Barefoot and navigating in half-darkness, on half-focus, he stubbed his toe on the edge of the counter on the way to the light switch. Swearing loudly, he hopped to the fridge. The little brown dog blinked up at him from the bed in the corner. 

“What the hell is that look for?” He asked Spud. Even the bloody dog was mocking him.

Greg let himself back into the bathroom with a stack of clothing that might fit Sherlock well enough and a fresh towel under one arm and two beers gripped in the other hand. He dumped the clothing beside the sink and cracked open the glass shower door to hand one of the beers in. He nearly dropped the bottle at what he saw. A painfully thin version of Sherlock was leaning against the far wall, his forehead against the tiles, his left arm curled protectively close to his body. He still wore his white shirt, translucent with moisture. The spray running away in apricot rivers hinted at the damage that it barely hid. He was brushing his teeth vigorously. He projected a picture of misery. He hadn’t even noticed Greg’s return. Greg had never seen Sherlock this unguarded; knew that he never would have let himself be seen like this voluntarily. It allowed Greg a moment to collect himself though. He looked away for a moment, his eyes flicking over to the sink. Then back at Sherlock. He let the shower door swing fully open now.

“Is that my toothbrush?” Greg asked, as he connected that it was missing from the sink.

Sherlock flinched, then mumbled around the toothbrush. “Yeah. You should keep some spares.” 

“Seriously. What for? For when my long dead friend pop by? That’s disgusting, Sherlock.” Greg didn’t know where the frustration came from, surely Sherlock’s injuries were more important than a toothbrush. The aggravation just bubbled up, unwanted and uncontrolled. 

Sherlock removed the toothbrush and spat. Pink foam circled the drain as he spoke. “What are you so upset about? You were literally shoving your tongue into my mouth not an hour ago.” 

Greg watched the frothy patch swirl towards the drain as Sherlock straightened up slowly and turned around, his shirt open, revealing dark bruises stretched over his taught frame. His movements stiff and jerky. Greg groaned. True as it was, he hated Sherlock logic.

“And your cock.” Sherlock went on, putting extra emphasis on the k.

“Extra reason to not want my bloody toothbrush in there.” Greg said, noticing the two dark shadows under Sherlock’s eyes. They hadn’t been there earlier. Jesus, how hard had John hit him?

“You didn’t seem to mind any cross contamination when you snogged me straight after I went down on you.” Sherlock said bluntly as he thrust the toothbrush towards Greg.

“It’s called passion.” Greg snapped as he snatched away the toothbrush. He threw it in the sink and slumped down on the toilet lid. He took a dejected swig of the beer.

“Apparently, you’re less of a prude when it comes to getting a gobby in your work carpark than you are in your own bathroom.”

“A what?”

“A prude.” 

“No, the other thing?”

“A gobby?”

“What the hell is that? Actually, I don’t want…”

“Australian slang for a blow job.”

“Oh, dear God. I don’t even want to know how you came to know that.” Greg was both defeated but reluctant to leave. “You don’t want this beer, do you?”

Sherlock spat again, the tang of blood mixing with the mint. Maybe Greg shouldn’t use the toothbrush after all. Everything hurt and he was so tired. Today had been a fucking disaster. He just wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t want a beer either. “No. You have it. I’ll get you a new toothbrush tomorrow.”

Greg placed the spare on the counter and nursed the other. He watched as Sherlock tried to shrug the wet shirt off his shoulder. It was plastered down by the water. Clearly sore muscles and split skin were hampering his efforts.

“Would you like some help?” Greg asked, not rising, expecting to be told to sod off.

Inside the shower he could see Sherlock’s shoulders slump even more and he muttered. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Greg could see that it cost him to accept the help. He slipped out of his shorts and stepped into the steamy cubicle. Sherlock was again leaning his head against the wall again. Greg took each wrist and unbuttoned the cuffs and then slowly peeled the shirt back off his shoulders. It was stuck to his skin in the way that all soaked clothing did, but across his back it had really adhered. Scabbed to bloody wounds. God, it was so much worse than the one mark Greg had seen on his lower back. It was glaringly obvious why Sherlock didn’t take his jacket and shirt off. Actually, he had stopped Greg from taking them off, now that he thought about it. The wounds were deep and numerous, some of them stitched, some of them nearly healed, some of them freshly opened or reopened, if the pulled stitches were any indication. He knew at once John had not done this. At least, not all of it. Greg helped Sherlock slide his right arm through the sleeve and left him to sort out the other one. The shirt made a heavy splat as it was dropped to the floor.

“This looks bad, Sherlock. The stitches have pulled out in a few places. You need to have these looked at.”

“Don’t, just don’t.” Sherlock demanded as he held a bar of soap out to Greg.

“Should I wash your back? It looks really sore.” He wanted to ask about it; needed to know what had happened. He knew Sherlock would baulk though. Better to wait until a better time. 

“You can’t make it any worse.”

Greg doubted that as he took the soap from Sherlock’s hand. He did his best to wash down between the pieces of shredded skin. Sherlock hissed and tensed a few times but stayed still as Greg wiped away the dried clots of blood, the crusty scabs and the loose stitches. 

Greg followed the markings down his back, exploring the valleys between scars of varying ages. How had he missed all of this earlier? Lust and darkness had blinded him to Sherlock’s pain, that was now glaringly obvious in the bright light of the bathroom. He tried to swallow but it stuck in his throat. Sherlock lifted one foot at a time so he could wash his feet. Even those were torn up. Jesus. What had happened to him? 

Greg took a step back and Sherlock turned towards him. 

“It’s not so bad.” Sherlock tried to reassure him.

“Yeah, it is.” Greg pulled him in, kissing him lightly. Suddenly scared that Sherlock would shatter like glass if he pressed any harder. Greg moved the soap over his chest and sides. Over the burns and bruises. Sherlock wincing and muscles fluttering when he worked gently over the dark bruise over his ribs on the left side. Sherlock hissed and gritted “ribs” between clenched teeth. Still Greg didn’t ask, but the questions burned. 

When he moved the soap across Sherlock’s lower abdomen, with clear intent of moving lower, Sherlock gripped his wrist. 

“Let me. Have you got any shampoo?” Sherlock couldn’t handle anyone touching him there. Not now, not with his nerves frayed. 

“Might have some under the sink.” He said as he passed the soap to Sherlock. Greg stepped out of the comforting steam and into the cold bathroom to hunt through the cupboards for some shampoo. His hair cut too short to bother with it lately. 

With Greg searching for shampoo Sherlock used the relative privacy for washing away the residue of their passion. 

Dripping and shivering, Greg found what he was searching for, as well as a bottle of conditioner he did not remember buying, maybe Sherlock had left it here all those years ago. He was relieved to step out of the cold and back under the warm spray of water, glad that he had upgraded the water heater last May. Sherlock bent his head forward so that Greg could massage the shampoo through his hair. To Greg, it felt strangely intimate, with Sherlock’s hands on his hips. 

Once the shampoo and conditioner were rinsed out Sherlock muttered an uncharacteristic thank you and stepped out of the shower. Greg took the opportunity of being alone to have a quick wash. He was soaked through anyway, might was well make the most of it. He was as quick about it as he could be, desperate that Sherlock not be alone for long.

Sherlock was wrapped in both towels and was sitting on the toilet seat when Greg stepped out onto the cold tiles. Sherlock had taken the mat with him as well. He could kill him. Except that he looked so horribly miserable. Sherlock must have heard him sigh and glanced up. Unwrapped the towel from around his shoulders and held it out to Greg.

“Thanks,” Greg muttered, touched more by the gesture than the gravity should have allowed . He dried off quickly and tugged his shorts back on. Sherlock just sat staring at the tiles. Greg was deeply worried about him. He’d seemed relatively normal only a couple of hours ago and now was so unnaturally subdued. 

“You haven’t eaten today, have you?” 

“Not since I…” Sherlock paused, he didn’t want Greg to know he had just left the hospital that morning. “Not since breakfast.” 

“I’ll make you something.” 

“Don’t bother.”

“You really should; have you looked in the mirror?” Greg gestured towards the fogged bathroom mirror. “You’re like a walking skeleton.”

“It’s really not that bad.”

Greg just raised his eyebrows. Sherlock ignored him; continued staring at the floor.

“Some tea and toast?”

“I can’t eat, I just can’t stomach it.” Sherlock confessed. 

“Soup?”

“Will it shut you up?”

“I can’t promise that.” Greg said, he was aiming for levity, but he just sounded glum. 

Sherlock dressed slowly once Greg had moved into the kitchen. He avoided looking in the mirror as he put on a t-shirt that was far too big for him and the pyjama pants that needed the drawstring pulled tight to stay up on his hips. Sherlock limped towards the kitchen, but never made it that far. On the couch was a dog. It lifted its head as Sherlock neared and thumped its tail. He lowered himself carefully, gingerly, to sit beside the small brown dog. Offering his hand to the dog for its inspection, he said “What’s your name?”

The dog ignored his hand but came towards him walking its front paws up Sherlock’s chest until it could sniff his face. Sherlock smiled at the dog’s forward approach to new people. The tag on his neck read ‘Spud,’ but the address was for the next street over. The house behind Greg’s. Singular.

“It’s nice to meet you, Spud.” Sherlock whispered at the dog. Spud licked his face and happily wagged his tail as Sherlock scratched his back. Sherlock buried his face in the warm coarse fur. Sherlock listened to Greg potter around in the kitchen, while he patted the dog. He didn’t even know Greg had a dog. Did Greg have a dog? The address on the collar was wrong, but there was dog hair in the bedroom. Weird. He sunk down lower onto the couch. Wrapping himself around the warmth of the dog. 

Greg came in carrying two bowls of soup, just the rubbish from a can, but at least it was something. He smiled when he saw Sherlock asleep on the couch, Spud curled up against his chest, Sherlock’s arm around him. Greg left the soup on the table and backtracked towards the hall cupboard to grab a blanket, all the while wondering why bloody Sherlock Holmes was more likely to hug the dog he’d just met, than hug him? 

He draped the blanket over both the man and the dog. Sherlock, having the senses of a cat, woke. He flinched, drew a sharp breath but settled back down when he saw it was Greg. Sherlock rubbed a hand over his eyes. Greg sat down in the gap by Sherlock’s shins. 

“You alright?” Greg asked softly.

“Fine.”

“Lier.”

And everyone said he was blunt. Greg sure could give as good as he got. He knew it was coming. The questions.

“Sherlock, tell me what’s going on?

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, shock his head a little. Greg knew that was as close to a no as he would ever get from Sherlock. 

“I see you’ve met Spud.” 

“He’s excellent.” Sherlock mumbled sleepily. 

“Yeah, he’s a good dog.” Greg agreed. 

“He’s not yours, is he? Did you steal him?” Sherlock asked accusingly, as he sat up. 

“Not exactly. He belongs to the neighbour’s kids, but their yard is so small, and he used to bark a lot. One of the other neighbours was pretty pissed, threatened to call the council. I told them they could put in a gate so that he had more room. The gate is never shut, Spud comes over when they are out, or when he’s sick of the kids. Eventually, I put in a doggy door, now he comes over every night once the kids have gone to bed. He’s been great company. It’s all the best parts of having a dog without having to worry if I’m home late, or not at all.” 

Sherlock was glad Greg had somebody to come home to. He thought about going back to Baker Street now that John was gone, the silence, the emptiness. It was hard to fathom. It was not what he had expected to come home to. He wondered if this was how Greg had felt when his wife left him.

They sat in silence for a moment, Spud pressed against Sherlock’s leg as if he knew he needed comfort or protection. 

“What happened out there, while you were away?” Greg asked, steeling himself for Sherlock to either shut down or leave.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked back, clearly deflecting. Instantly defensive. 

“You know exactly what I mean, you’re hurt, and you’re… not yourself.” 

“Who am I then?” He snapped back. Sherlock wanted to answer properly, wanted to open up but he didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know where to begin. 

Greg sighed. “Please don’t do that Sherlock. I don’t want to argue with you. I care about you. You’re hurting and not just physically. I want to help.”

“You’re an idiot if you think that.” 

“Yeah, thanks, Sherlock, but you aren’t hiding anything. I can see it on you, you’re hurt. Anyone could see that, but there is more too. You cannot deny it. It's plain as day.” Greg kicked himself for not having seen it sooner. Maybe he was as big of an idiot as Sherlock liked to label him.

“Well, if you’re so clever then go ahead.” Sherlock snapped gesturing to himself. 

“What?” Greg asked, confused. 

“See. You are an idiot. If you think you can see so much, then do it. You’ve seen me do it a hundred times, I’m sure you can manage, just once. You saw it all in the shower, it is all written here, on my body. God knows, Mycroft managed it.”

Greg slowly shook his head, just once back and forth. Was nothing ever easy? He was sure this was just another way for Sherlock to ridicule him and then deflect away from talking about whatever it was that had happened to him. He could see no other way forward though.

“I’ll bite. So, umm… the injuries,” Greg said, knowing it was an obvious place to start, “they are not all the same age, so they can’t have occurred at the same time. It appears that they did happen fairly close together. Not more than a few days between them, but some are weeks old. It looks like they happened over the course of a few weeks. Some are nearly healed, and some are quite fresh. They are more serious than just accidents; you cannot possibly claim that you fell down the stairs. They were deliberate. Someone did that to you. And they are varied. Some were inflicted with a sharp weapon; others look like blunt force trauma.”

“Great descriptions, but I know what they look like. I have looked in the mirror, you know? Are you going to do anything with those descriptions?”

“Give me a minute. I’m not you.” Greg huffed. “Someone caused them over a period of time with different objects or maybe different people. They would have been painful, very painful.” 

Sherlock looked away. It was all the acknowledgement that Greg needed to continue. “You might be a masochist but not in the bedroom, so I don’t think that these were part of some game you played voluntarily.”

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly.

Greg had gotten going now, talking before he had really thought through the meaning of the things he said. “I’m going to say that in order for you to have sustained this many injuries over that period of time, you must have been held somewhere. These are the marks of some form of interrogation, no, they are the marks of torture.” 

“Not such an idiot after all.” Sherlock said but his voice carried no applause.

Jesus, he had been tortured. “How long did they have you?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment as if considering whether to answer. “Three weeks, give or take.”

“Give or take?”

“I lost track of time.” Sherlock winced as he admitted this, as if the not knowing was equally as painful as the injuries he carried.

“Were you questioned or did they just like hurting you?”

“Both.” Sherlock admitted. 

“There is something else though, isn’t there?” Greg asked.

He got no reply. No denial. 

“I’ve seen you brush things off, things that would stay with just about anyone. You have seen people killed and shrugged. You eat lunch in the morgue. I have seen you hurt, badly hurt, deliberately hurt and you’ve never had so much as the shakes. I have seen you go up against the worst criminals in London, cold as ice. There is more to this than the wounds. They did something else.”

“Please stop” Sherlock insisted. Wishing they had never started this game. Greg wasn’t supposed to work this part out. The colour drained from Sherlock’s face. 

“What is it that could upset you this much and this long after the incident?” Greg felt sick as he put it together in his mind. “Oh, oh Jesus. No, not that.”

Then it hit him. What they had done tonight. The strange behaviour, the intensity of Sherlock’s demands, the way he had shut down afterwards. Shit, how much had that set him back? 

“Were you raped?” he blurted out. Saying it out aloud left him feeling like he had been shanked in the guts. 

“Well done, detective.” Sherlock’s voice was dead, his eyes on the floor. The agitation was gone, what replaced it was worse. Sherlock’s flat admission was like someone was twisting the shank. The cold feeling that ran down his spine made him shiver.

“What was tonight about then?” It sounded more accusatory than it was meant to.

Sherlock flinched. The little dog jostled to its feet as Sherlock shot Greg a dirty look. “I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to feel something good. I wanted someone to touch me without it being about pain and control and manipulation. I guess I just wanted to cover up the bad memories with something decent.”

Greg had a moment of selfishness, he knew even as the words left his mouth that it was wrong to make this about himself, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Don’t you think I should have got some say in this, don’t you think you should have told me first?”

“I’ve been tested. All the tests have come back negative. False negatives are rare. I made sure you used a condom. I told you I had been with someone else. I did not put you at risk.” Sherlock’s voice was rising as he spoke. Spud stiffened at the harsh words.

“It’s not that, I’m…” Greg started but Sherlock didn’t let him finish.

“Would you have had sex with me if you knew?” Spud yipped at hearing the harsh words. Sherlock’s hand falling away from his back. 

“No, of course not.” Greg snapped. “You’re a mess.”

“See, that is exactly why I didn’t tell you. I knew if I told you, you wouldn’t want to be with me ever again.” Spud was between them, barking now. Facing Greg as if he was defending Sherlock.

“That’s not it, that’s not it at all. Shut up, Spud. It’s not that I don’t desire you, it’s that I am worried about you, I’m worried about making it worse.” The dog continued to yip loudly. 

“You didn’t. I was into it, liked it.” Sherlock shouted over the dog.

“Then why are you shaking?”

“Don’t treat me like a child.” Sherlock shot back.

“Then treat me like an equal and trust me enough to tell me stuff.” Greg sighed out some anger and leaned back against the cushions, staring at the roof. Sherlock stayed motionless. Spud went silent. Still facing Greg with this tail stiff. They both felt indignantly right and equally like they had wronged the other. 

“I’m so sorry.” Greg went to Sherlock then, he needed to hold him in his arms. He wanted to comfort and to be comforted. 

Greg’s movements were too fast causing Sherlock to hold him at arm’s length for a moment. Slowly Sherlock’s body caught up with his mind, Greg wasn’t a threat. Greg moved Spud out of the way so that he could sit beside Sherlock’s thigh. Greg expected Sherlock to push him away, but he just curled into Greg’s chest. Held his shirt in his fist. 

“You shouldn’t have had to go through that. It’s not fair.”

“Fairness is not how the universe operates.”

“No, I guess not.” A long silence was loud between them, before Greg confessed, “I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything.” Sherlock said softly. “It’s not your responsibility to fix this.”

“I know, but I can try to help if you'll let me.”

The silence stretched on again. Greg began to wonder if Sherlock had fallen asleep, but eventually he spoke. His voice was back to the flat, emotionless, controlled thing it had been before they had argued. “I don’t know how to do that.” 

“Come back to bed.” Greg said. “You are clearly exhausted. I have never seen you so tired. Let’s get some rest.”

Sherlock nodded. He really did need to get some sleep. “Can Spud come?”

“I’ll never get him to sleep in the basket again,” Greg said with mock annoyance. He was already getting to his feet. He held out a hand to Sherlock, letting him pull himself up in his own time. His movements were sluggish and slow, but once on his feet he picked up Spud and limped towards the bedroom.

Greg watched him go ahead and felt the weight of it all. 

Sherlock went to the far side of the bed this time, no longer feeling the need to be near the exit, but rather feeling like Greg offered protection from the rest of the world. He took Spud with him. The little dog thrumming his tail with excitement at being invited into the bed. 

Greg flicked off the hall light. Plunging them into darkness. Sherlock froze. 

“Could you please leave it on?” He asked in a brittle tone. “It was always dark when…”

“Sure, sorry.” Greg flicked the light back on. Even this tiny insight gave him reason to pause. The damage that must have been done in the darkness to cause a grown man, a fiercely brave one at that, to ask for the lights to be left on, he barely wanted to consider.

Sherlock placed Spud on the bed, and he burrowed under the covers, running excited squiggles while Greg and Sherlock got in. Spud appeared under Sherlock’s chin as soon as he was settled.

“You’ve been here five minutes and the bloody dog has already abandoned me.” Greg joked as he smiled at the image before him. Sherlock pulled the blanket up until it covered Spud up to his chin and stroked the dog’s soft ears. They both lay in silence. Sherlock was clearly lost in thought. Greg wished he would share what he was thinking with him, but he didn’t dare ask; he didn’t want them to argue again. He rolled onto his back and stared at the roof. He couldn’t imagine what things had been like for Sherlock over the past few months. It was hard for him to reconcile. He’d been so certain that Sherlock was dead, imagining him somewhere in the world going about his business was hard to fathom. Almost as hard as it was to fathom that he wound up in a situation that involved torture and rape. Perhaps his difficulty in imagining it was because he didn’t have enough information. Selfishly, he yearned to know where it happened, who did it, when. All the messy details that the detective in him wanted to know but couldn’t ask because satisfying his own morbid curiosity wouldn’t help Sherlock one little bit. 

He felt like shit for sleeping with him earlier. His stomach clenched with anger; Sherlock should have told him. He’d have been more careful; he’d have taken things more slowly. With a sudden jolt he wondered if he had taken advantage of his vulnerability. He tried to think back to the exact details, had Sherlock express one hundred percent consent all the way through? He’d initiated nearly everything. That should have tipped him off that something was wrong, but he’d been reeling from the night’s developments and let’s face it, reeling from arousal too. He’d asked Greg to have sex with him, he’d come prepared, he’d been the one to search out the condoms and the lube. The only time he’d been anything but near frantic with desire was when he hadn’t wanted to come yet. Sherlock had acted in every way that indicated he had been a willing participant, and yet Greg still felt like shit. Sherlock was right, if he had known, he wouldn’t have had sex with him. How could Sherlock possibly deal with a recent violent sexual assault well enough to jump back into a physical relationship? He couldn’t, surely. Couldn’t if this evening was anything to go by. How far had this set him back? 

Would he have slept with John, if John had been more welcoming of his return? Is that what Sherlock wanted? Is that why he went to see John first? Greg couldn’t help but assume that he was the consolation prize. Could John and Sherlock patch things up? He hoped so. He really did, in the part of himself that wasn’t being selfish enough to want Sherlock for himself. Sherlock and John were good together though, well suited to each other. They made each other happy in a soothingly content way. There was that issue with the girlfriend though. Would John see the sense in breaking it off with her now that Sherlock was back? God, he hoped so, for everyone’s sake. 

“Have you ever felt terror?” Sherlock interrupted Greg’s thoughts to ask in a meek, small voice.

Greg hummed, unsure whether it was a rhetorical question or not. 

Sherlock sensed that Greg wasn’t quite caught up, so he added, “Actual terror, uncontained and astonishing terror?”

Greg considered for a moment, running through the times in his life when he’d been the most frightened. Now was rating pretty high on the list. “I’m not sure. I think the moment that comes closest was that explosion at the warehouse near Cotton Street. Knowing there were people still inside, seeing Davis with his shirt on fire, the roof coming down around us.” Greg shuddered, that had been a very bad day. “Is that the sort of thing you’re asking about?”

“I guess so.” Sherlock said. “That’s what it felt like. The first few times I was raped. Knowing that there was nothing I could do to stop it or change the outcome. No one was going to come and rescue me. I was scared in a way that I’ve never been before. Even preparing to step off the roof didn’t come close to the reality of what he was doing to me.”

Greg listened as Sherlock spoke with a hitching voice. Shocked by the admission that it was more than a single event. He didn’t speak, just left the space for Sherlock to fill, if he wanted to.

“The terror receded as they wore me down. It became a steady dread, but I don’t think that feeling of fear has ever truly left me. I can’t shake it off. It’s like, now that I have experienced that, that kind of panic, it’s like that moment of fear has imprinted itself on me. The physiological symptoms are always right there, just under the surface, ready to breach at any moment. Now, I’m scared of the fear. Scared to be scared. It’s irrational. It’s ridiculous. It’s exhausting.” 

Greg didn’t know what to do with this admission, this vulnerability. He was experienced in talking to victims of crime. He did it nearly every day. He spoke to people who had experienced the worst days of their lives. He asked them questions, asked them for details so intimate and personal they probably didn’t even tell their psychologist as much. Yet, he never had to offer answers to them, nothing more that suggestions for seeking counselling or medical support. He never even really needed to console them. Now, here he was confronted by someone who he cared deeply about, and he couldn’t think of a single meaningful thing to say. 

“How do I go back to a normal life?” Sherlock asked. 

This time it was clear he was actually asking. He wanted an answer, as if there was one. That was one of the few limitations of the Sherlock brain. Problems needed solutions, concrete final solutions. He often failed to take into account the nuances of emotions; he felt them well enough, he could predict with startling accuracy how they might make someone act, but he often failed to see how they cannot be changed with simple solutions. 

Greg reached out and brushed the tear away from the corner of Sherlock’s eye. He left his hand there, against his cheek. “I don’t know. I suspect it will take some time.”

As Sherlock slowly drifted toward sleep, Greg watched over him. Greg was struck by a gripping sense of responsibility to keep him safe.

Lestrade woke to the screaming of his alarm. He groaned and he smashed the snooze button. Just ten more minutes. He dozed in the warm comfort that you can only achieve when you know it must end very soon. Beside him Sherlock rolled over but didn’t seem to wake.

When the alarm sounded again Greg groped for it quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Sherlock up. It had been a rough night for him. For both of them. Numerous times Sherlock had woken with a startled gasp or thrashed through the throes of a dream that had clearly disturbed him. The worst one left him sobbing into Greg’s chest until he cried himself to sleep. Neither of them had said a word. They would both forever pretend it never happened.

Greg forced himself to stand. His back ached; was he getting too old for enthusiastic shagging? He shuffled towards the bathroom for a quick shower, hoping the hot water would wake him up and sooth his aching muscles.

Sherlock was still asleep when he came in wearing only a towel, so he found his clothes using the light on his phone. He covered it with a fingertip to keep the light low. As he was turning the light off, he saw the battery was at twelve percent. Damn it. He forgot to charge it in all the drama of the night before. He plugged it in at the kitchen counter while he made coffee and toast. He made extra for Sherlock. He probably wouldn’t eat it. It would be left to go cold like the soup from the night before, but he had to try. He scarfed down his own toast and filled his travel mug to the brim. He was doing to need every bit of it to get through the day. He checked his watch. If he didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, he’d catch all the peak hour traffic.

He didn’t want to startle Sherlock, so he refrained from touching him. In fact, he’d rather let him sleep but he knew if he snuck out without saying anything Sherlock would take it personally.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, “I brought you coffee.”

He slept on. Greg put the plate and mug on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. He put the bedside lamp on hoping it would help wake Sherlock. He looked so peaceful, his features smooth and unworried for the first time. Greg’s heart broke for the pain he’d been through. He lightly brushed a thumb across Sherlock’s smooth cheek. He stirred. Sniffed, mumbled incoherently. Greg wafted the coffee mug under his nose. “Wake up. Coffee.”

Sherlock opened one eye. Grumbled as few incoherent words.

“Good morning.” Greg kissed him on the forehead. “I’ve got to go to work. Sleep as long as you like. I’ll be home around six if the criminal masses play nicely. I’ll bring home dinner.”

“I can’t stay here all day. I’ll die of boredom.”

“Come in when you’re ready. I’ve got a case for you anyway.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, bring John if you want. It’s a good one you’ll like it.”

“The skeleton thing?”

“Yeah, the skeleton thing.” Greg said resigned to Sherlock always being one step ahead of him. 

“You can’t figure it out.”

“I need you for that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Got to go.” Greg leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock met his lips, kissing him back softly. Greg pulled back. Reluctant to leave. “I’m glad you are back.”

He leaned in for another kiss. Sherlock gripped his shirt held him close but when Greg tried to make the kiss more intimate Sherlock turned his face away. Greg pecked him on the cheek. Patted him on the chest and rose to leave. “See you later. Eat something. Take whatever medication they gave you. I think you’ve got a bit of a fever. You nearly cooked me last night.”

Greg left before Sherlock could grumble too much. Left before another rejection could twist the knife in his guts again.


End file.
